When I was seven, my best friend and I used to dress up and have tea parties. We wore the torn, hand-me-down dresses from my cousins like they were gowns straight out of a princess’s wardrobe, and we were beautiful. We would prance around my room with purple plastic teacups, and there was no better place to dine than the blue **** carpet from Goodwill.

When I was seven I wanted to be a dancer. Not just a ballerina, no. I wanted to do everything. I watched with rapt attention as my cousin’s modern class tumbled to the floor of the stage, and as I stared at their neon colored tank tops and black jazz pants, it seemed that my world made sense. It seemed that as long as I was there on stage, dancing with the same skill and emotion and passion, I would be beautiful.

For my eighth birthday, my friend gave me the sixth Harry Potter book. My favorite character was Hermione. At recess, we would tie the sleeves of our red uniform sweaters around our necks and run around the blacktop pretending to play Quidditch. I thought Harry was smart and cunning and funny, but Hermione. Hermione was full of enthusiasm and rules and always made friends even if they were only in her head. She was top of her class with hair that everyone noticed and her brain was bigger than her group of friends at lunch and that was okay because she was like me. I never thought Hermione was beautiful. She didn’t need to be. Her bushy hair was full of intelligence and her buck teeth were strong enough to bite off the tongues of her oppressors and her dull, brown eyes weren’t dull at all because even the Whomping Willow began as a patch of dirt.

Hermione wasn’t beautiful like a garden. Her fiery eyes were dancing with flames that could wipe out an entire forest without even breaking a sweat. I have never wanted to be beautiful like a garden or the sunlight on the Fourth of July. As I tumble onstage in a blue dress with a tear in the front, my feet are ***** and my palms are sweaty and not one girl has brushed her hair. Footsteps pound the floor like a mighty pride of lions and hearts race as the bass drops and I am not a garden. Don’t you dare call me beautiful.

there is a terrible oneness of self,
a totality of single-serving lives
all sip it from teacups sometimes...
some drown in a flood of its
mountain-cold rapids

to be resolute, to face the
falling of the light wearing
the face of Red-coat bravery,
a garment forgotten in the New World,
to carry on without comment
is an unspoken bargain, an
acceptance of defeat with dignity.

Our triumphs are of little notice
to those we struggle for.

I am but a piece of fine china
Fearful that I may break
For you must know
My existence is at stake!

It is hard being a plate
A porcelain product, flat and round
One slip out of your fingers
I'm in useless pieces on the ground!

You see, people use me
Their knives cut, their forks poke!
I think they think of me
As some kind of joke!

I have been painted
A piece of china, glazed
When on display in a cabinet
I want to remain there for days

You wonder of my colors
Why I wear this hue
The world is like a peacock
but I remain blue

I stand with my brothers and sisters
Fearful my world will be shattered
Along with the vases and teacups
Along with the platters!

Why couldn't I be a ring of gold?
Why couldn't I be diamond?
To be worn and venture out on the town
Instead of this piece of china!

I often feel like I am drowning
In a sea of sudsy bubbles in a sink
But then I'm proud that I'm gleaming
After I am rinsed!

I'm tired of being filled with pasta
Sauces, gravies, nothing new
That is why my color represents me well
That is why I am blue!

Ms. Minerva’s
Helpful Hints and a guide through life



Ms.Minerva…
Born September 1885….died September 1976, 91 years old.  She didn’t marry until she was 45 and had her first child that year.  Getting married at 45 was something that didn’t happen to often for women back then, especially a black woman.  Then low and behold 5 years later: what the doctor called her second tumor, she had her second and last child at 50, a baby girl and her change of life in one shot.
        But her true joy came along 17 years later at 67….only being a mother for 22 years; she was now a grandmother……that’s where I came in!  My mother’s oldest child and Ms Minerva, my grandmother’s baby boy……..Mama!!

    It is important to tell you that from here on, the stories will be in no certain order….they’re as I remember them.  As I found understanding, THE LIGHT, as she called it.
MS. MINERVA’S HELPFUL HINTS…
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[Song – Higher & Higher]
This song became her theme song for a while:  Love, knowledge taking you higher!!  Ms Minerva (Mama) the first career women I knew.  In 1967, she heard this song and realizes that this song talked about what kept her going…LOVE!  Love took her higher and higher and it was love that she shared………with me!

MM: “Boy, you might not understand what I’m telling you, but remember it remember all you hear, see, taste and feel….. because understanding come with time and when you ready for it!”
Knowledge……. Love………Understanding……Enlightenment take us higher.

How?  How did a black woman in south Louisiana go out, have a career, a family with little education but wise beyond her years.  Oh, when I say career woman I mean a cook, maid, nanny but mama said,

MM: “those jobs keep us going and I was one of the best, always be the best at what you do…greatness comes in all sizes!”


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Another thing I should say is: some of the stories that I will share have not been documented as fact.  They were hers that she shared with me…..
Like one night watching TV…….

MM: Lord, Lord, Lord…
CC:  What’s the matter Mama?
MM:  Did I ever tell you about when I worked at an all boys’ school in New (N’Orleans) Orleans.  I was the one who stayed with the boys at
night.  Well, there was one lil’ boy that was always
sneaking out of bed going outside playing his horn.
I would take it from him and beat his ****.  The day
they give it back to him, that night he would sneak outside
again.  Beating his **** didn’t help, he just kept sneaking out
no matter how long we kept the horn.
CC: What happen to him mama?
She pointed to the TV and said:
MM:  There he is……


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Louie Armstrong singing HELLO DOLLY raise in an all boys home in New (N’Orleans) Orleans….was this true……I don’t know.  Did and do I believe it….YES!
This was also one of the times I receive one of ….Ms Minerva’s Helpful Hint:

MM: You can be anything you want if you believe
and have the passion for it! Believe in
your passion because you are your passion
and you must always believe in you….yourself!  
No matter what others say or think….it’s you who
must believe!

Believing, she was a big believer. she believed in people and the good in them.


5
MM:  Always see the positive in people, in everything thing.
No matter how negative someone or something is
there is always an ounce of positive…..go for the positive,
it will always carry you through and shine light

Everywhere, positive light.

I often wonder how someone so positive in my life, who taught me to look up and be strong could be so down on her daughter , my mother.  When I was sent to fly with the eagles she was told to stay on earth.  This was one of my confusions, I knew there was a lot of love there between them but so hard for them to share……Understanding comes with time.

When I was 7 years old I was sent to the kitchen to cook for a family of 5.  It wasn’t what you think.  At 72 years old Ms. Minerva wasn’t seeing things to well. So, instead of saying; Old woman you need to stop, you’re losing it.  She was told; “It’s time for Curtis to start learning how to cook, he needs to know how to take care of himself.”  So, what I thought was a prison

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sentence became some of the most wonderful and important times of my life……
I was allow to be a child and do the things children do but at 5, maybe 5:30 I went to spend my hour or two with Ms. Minerva, my best friend…..learning the secrets of the kitchen and of life.

MM:  you have got to know how to take care of yourself.
I won’t be here to take care of you but I’ll always
be watching over you, I'll always be with you!

Like a lot of things, I didn’t get it then, but I do now:

One day, I was tormenting my grandfather….Oh I haven’t and won’t say much about him because that is a whole other story, but I’ll share this much with you:
  His name was Tower Jackson Sr. better known as Bud (papa to me).  He was born in December of 1880 and died in 1969, it’s funny but I don’t remember the month or day, it just kinda went a way.  Anyway, I think he
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was married once before Ms Minerva…that’s what he said.  He had a daughter…Aunt Traci….who was old enough to be my mother’s mother.  Remember THE COLOR PURPLE he was kinda like Mister and Old Mister but not as bad.  But Ms Minerva wasn’t Ms Celia…she was more like Sophia. Papa loved me unconditionally and he was my playmate but I don’t think he realized that point but I had a great time.

Back to one of the days I was tormenting him…he was finish with me and he got up and came after me…he was between 75 or 80.  I starting running and he came after me.  We lived in a house that was once a duplex, I ran out of his room, which was in the middle of the house, took a left and headed for the kitchen and the back door, that was open to freedom.  I got to the kitchen and I could see the back door standing open and waiting for me….  But out the corner of my eye, I see Ms. Minerva washing dishes.  I turn right, then a sharp left and I’m almost to the door…..just then an arm reach out and push the door close…..I can’t stop……I hit the door and fall to the floor.  Just before papa grab me to start the whipen’ and mama looks down at me and say:      

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MM: Boy, didn’t I tell you to stop running in my house and don’t every run away!”
Well, it was all over.  I got a whipin’…one I would never forget.  Papa felt so guilty he took me for Ice Cream almost everyday for a week.
But later that day…….Ms Minerva’s helpful hint:

MM:  Baby the reason I don’t want you running, especially when
you’re scared, is because you’ll be running for the rest
of your life.  When you run out of fear you’re only
running from yourself.  No matter what people think
or what’s happening stand and face it…Don’t Run!
Believe in yourself and you can beat it.

I didn’t really understand what she was saying, but when I’m scared I hear her voice and I stand (sometime that old confusion comes in with my mother) but most time I stand, face it and deal with it.  Growing, Changing and changing and growing!  Stronger everyday.


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I remember when I was 12, it was a Sat and a beautiful day and Ms. Minerva called me into the house.  It wasn’t time for cooking and it was Sat but I went:
MM:  I need to talk to you.
CC: Mama can we talk later I’m playing.
MM:   No, I want and need to talk to you NOW!. let’s cook.

I knew that was it.  When she says: “let’s cook” the battle was over, she felt it was important.  We got to the kitchen and started pulling stuff out …
MM: You’re special
CC:  No, no don’t start this again.
MM:  No, no, no you’re special! You’re a *****, a punk, *****…

There were a few other choice colorful names…Then she said:

MM:  Now that someone that loves you, truly loves you have
called you these names they can’t hurt you.  You’re gay
and it’s not something I would chose for you but it’s

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who you are.  But it makes you more special and wonderful because you are different. You are my special, but it’s only apart of you and your life, not your whole life or the whole you.  You can chose to practice or not.  You are made up of many parts, many yous…..Be Proud of who you are! Never hang your head, You will be a great man…even greater because you know who and what you are.

That day, I knew what love was and what love is.  Unconditional Love.  I was Proud to be who and what I was and who and what I was to become.  Proud of Who I Am and What I Am.

Music was always heard in my house, all kind, mama believed in   experiencing everything in everyway.
MM:  You need to know about it all, don’t let ignorance
be your down fall.  That’s what’s wrong with most folk,
they just don’t know and don’t want to learn.  Education
is freedom; knowledge is light….don’t ever stand
in the dark, you’ll only hurt yourself.

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There were a few things I didn’t learn or just didn’t remember.  Remember I said; she didn’t like running in her house.  Well, when I was a kid I was a runner, a mover, didn’t want to get caught…so I just kept moving.   Well, one day my mother was going to whip my ****, I don’t even know why this time but she grab my arm and I just started running around her and every time I heard the belt hit…I would yell.  I think I might have gotten hit once or twice but my mother’s legs, oh boy, but she kept going and so did I.
Then I heard the voice…….
MM:  Sister, what are you doing?
Sister, that’s what everyone called my mother, even me.  she sat down in her chair
MM: Bring that boy over here and let me show you
how to do that.

The she put me on my knees and stuck my head between her knees and turn her feet in and locked her knees.  My ears were hurting but not compared to how my **** was going to feel.  Then I heard……

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MM:  Now, see you got wide-open ****!

Then the whipping began and it was one I’d never forget and the whole time she just kept talking to my mother…..I can hear her and feel the belt now..

MM:  Girl you need to get out of the way and stop making
it so hard.  Just breathe and believe, it’ll come together….
Now, go put something on your legs.

It took me awhile to start breathing but I did and I remembered what she said; “Just breathe and believe.” and when I don’t I just remember that belt on my ****.
Whenever people hear this story, they’re shocked, confuse…well, this was a different time and Ms. Minerva was a different kind of woman.  A wipen' wasn’t something that happen everyday, I never ended up in the hospital and I was shower with love….. a different day – a different time.
              


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Around that time I remember I went through my Ultra Black stage.  I had some problem at school and I hated all white people and I was very
vocal about it.  Mama, just listen and I went on and on and on….and somewhere in there she hit me and it shocked and stopped me in my tracks.  Then she looked at me and said:
MM:  Who spit on you?  Who’s bus did you sit on the back of?  
Who’s kitchen or yard did you work in?  Nothing, nothing has happen to you that bad to hate…..Don’t hate it takes to much energy.  Remember the positive.  Some white people are ignorance and you have to educate them.  You can’t be just one thing in America you have to know about all……people and things.  There will come a time in America when people will be more than just one race, we have and are mixing it up.  LEARN…we are all connected, we are all one, and we are all God!














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One other thing about my grandfather (Bud)…he had a scar over his right eye and I always asked him about it and he would say, “Go ask mama.”  But being a kid I would forget and then ask him again.  Well one day I remembered to ask Mama how he got the scar.  

MM: Who told you to ask me?

CC:  Papa……..

She started laughing and told me to sit down……

MM: One day papa came home and had decided he was going to beat me.  Someone had told him that I would take it because I should feel lucky he married an old woman.  So, he came in and hit me!  I had the broom in my hand (I had just finish sweeping) and I took that broom and started beating him with it until I broke the handle on his head.  But he kept coming and backed me up to the mantle where I had my teacups. (She collected cups and saucer) and I begin throwing them at him and when I realize I was breaking my cups…. I got mad and threw them harder and one hit him over the eye…. He stopped and went down…it was a bad cut.

cc:  What did you do?

MM:  I stepped over him and finishing cooking.  I knew he would live and I saw it didn’t hit him in the eye and it gave him something to remember this moment.  You have to leave a mark on people to remember you by….. hopefully it’s a positive mark but sometime it might have to be an ugly one.  People will treat you the way you let them and there will be time you have to show and leave them something to remember it by.  Don’t go through life getting beat up especially by yourself.

There were a few times I didn’t follow that bit of advice…...but understanding, the light came in time.


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MM:  You have to open up and let people in --- because a lot of times you see yourself through them and don’t you want them and yourself to see the truth?  THE TRUE YOU!

Early mornings were wonderful for Ms. Minerva:

MM:  Morning is my time to talk to Me and God and get us together for the day.  Some folks don’t know that they are God….your positive energy creates your world and parts of the world of others.  When you create you must be honest, positive, loving……God!  So, my quiet times in the morning is finding honest, positive, loving, creative things and feeling…..finding God in me!!!!!!!!

(Song – Amazing Grace)


One night while watching TV; we watched a lot of TV…..watching TV and cooking…anyway, it was the Mitch Miller Singers and Leslie Uggams was singing:

MM:  That’s a cute little colored girl.
CC:  Mama, we’re not colored anymore, we’re Black.

There was silent and then a sigh….

CC:  What’s the matter mama?
MM:  I’ve been *****, colored and a few other names that I don’t want to talk about and now I’m Black……I wish they would make up their minds what I am!

Then she told me:

MM:  No matter who or what people think you are…You have to know yourself, people will always try to make you into what they want you to be but the final choice is yours. You Must Know Curtis.

Her helpful hints could and would come anytime, anywhere:
MM:  life is a lesson to learn…never, never stop learning!
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Whenever I talk about Ms. Minerva I realize how much she means to me and how good it makes me feel because I see how good it makes others feel……people showing me…..Me and Ms. Minerva.

The day Ms. Minerva died I was in Shreveport/Bossier, LA in the Air Force, it was September 1976.  I was at work in the printing plant at Barksdale AFB.  My boss told me the commander wanted to see me, he was acting a little strange but at the time I didn’t think much of it.  Walking out to my car my best friend ran out after me and said he was going with me….”they call for me too.”  We got in the car laughing and talking about all the things they coul

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
        Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
        Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo
        Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
  And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

     . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

     . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
     upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
     along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  ‘That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.’

     . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.

Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.

Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?

Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.

Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.

from the moment i met you, i knew i would unlock my heart and invite you inside. something about your smile, the whimsy in your eyes, wild, dangerously curious. warm, waiting to whisk me away. you knocked me off my feet, plucked me from my path like a flower. you introduced me to the sun like an old friend.
                        when you lift your eyelids it’s as if you’re taking off my skin, exposing my soul, layer by layer. time awaits for you to look into my eyes so he can take a break. look at me, just look at me. look at me looking at you. i'll reflect your light for once, turn my windows into mirrors. the moment you brush my hand, touch my elbow, tap my shoulder, teacups stand still and my head’s the one spinning mad. be careful, hold still, or your every movement will send me to the moon, shattering my composure and sticking it back together in some form of awe. i’ve been there too many times already.
                       the sun rises in your irises. every morning. i swear it does, i’ve seen it. you blush when you unzip your heart too suddenly. you get shy when i take your photo and i know you don’t like it but you know it’s good for you. you see magic in everyone. you are gentle on my mind and ******* my heart. you are quick on your feet but clumsy when you're tired. you choose the dark side of the moon to explore so you can make your own light.  you hum under your breath when no one’s listening. you are so close with the sun, it burns you every time you meet. it burns you every single time. you’re slow to trust and quick to love. and it burns you. but you still love.
                       And if you are in love, you are the lucky one. respect is my upmost priority. her voice is why i hold my tongue. the way you look at her is why i hide my blush. the photos you take is why i hinder my breath. holding her hand is why i walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk, timing my steps so our fingers won’t brush. your love is why i’m afraid. petrified. it’s augustly love, love you deserve. and if you are happy, you are the lucky one. i wish nothing more for you. happiness for you. for you, i would demand the sea fit into a single bucket, wish the stars to rearrange their light to suit your perspective, ask the flowers to grow backward to grant spring a second chance. for you, i would fit my love into a friendship. i could turn the lightening in my veins into wind instead.
                      in the back of the taxi, after raising the sunset from the sand and racing the rain home, the moonlight in your hair, the breeze in mine, i told you about a love that was complicated. i wanted so to tell you the truth. and i almost did. it would have been easy. we were opening up together. it would have been so easy.
                        you’re the reason.
                       the reason i reply with a smile and not a kiss on my lips, i chase ghosts and not shadows, i slow dance alone, to the beat of a drunk-with-dreams heart. you are the reason i answer no, i pretend i don’t know. you are the reason i want to say yes.
                         when i knocked on your door beneath the stars, when i wore your coat like a hug, when we danced on the cliffs I carved, when i peeled back vulnerability and showed you my stitches and you didn't turn away but you caressed every single scar, when i asked for your name but really wanted to hear your story, i was searching for something more. so here, as i write, attempting to interpret my modern-art-piece of a heart, i ask only one thing in return for honesty: bring back the sun, paint the sky like you painted me smitten. i grew out of my old life, met you on an adventure. i’m on my way up, growing out of this pain. and while i have peace in where we reside, i hope part of you is okay hearing this, because part of me needed to say it before it was suddenly done.

                     here we are.
                     here we go.
                     letting go.

                     after all, there are other ways to meet the sun.

             sincerely,
             the moonlight

Porcelain skin,
white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
Knotted hair,
with pink pretty bows.

Smiling mouth,
lips red as a rose.
Eyes open,
staring at blank space.
Pretty dresses,
covered all in lace.

Broken teacups,
will soon fall apart.
Never revealing,
her lack of a heart.
Perfect girl,
with an alluring complexion.

Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
Flawless,
you can’t see her cracks.
Scarred,
only seeing whites and blacks.

Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
Contemplating,
life itself.

i.

When will I hold a place on your list?

Names that are worth something
- a few I've never even heard before -
sit like pretty little
teacups
all in a row,
all holding their breath,
all minding their own business,
until something comes along and
ignites their genius.

(And I want a piece of it.)

I want to see my name on your list,
I want to feel like everything
I think is worth something
and I am worth something
and I somewhere behind my eyes, I suppose I know I am, but I'd like the confirmation, and if you'd be so kind as to please put my name down on
that list of yours
I'd be ever-so-grateful,

so sir,
when will I hold a place on your list?

ii.

Your decisive opinion of these
fictional scribbles
is like a
black-and-white
silent
stop-motion
film that I was never asked to expose.

And when I did,
(sir, your mind is like gravy)
I knew that you'd thicken with flour and
and overrun my potatoes, and
I've realized that dinner isn't worth ruining for you,
and besides,
this film is nothing more than a
tally of my faults.

One, two, three.

Tick-tock.

Beep.

we own teacups
of porcelain   that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied

we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam          rise                    and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time     slowly they get out of mind

one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes   in memory     nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)

these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee          and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently       never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware,     cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled,        coffee          and         tea.

I always thought of her          as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and     sipped       like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)

there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian

I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks    if she
wants coffee.

Fate, is in teacups-
A draw of cards, shows-crossroads
Lightning and two birds

be gentle with us
please.
or don’t.
it is, after all,
your choice.

but know this

we, the poets,
are not built like the rest.
we are the black rose
among gardens of red
too rare,
too delicate,
too dangerous.

we feel with the whole sky.
we love like the sun
is seconds from setting.
we fall,
not softly
but all at once,
like shattered stars
scattering over wounds.

we live small
but think wide.
in our minds,
we are always flying
between memories
and make-believe,
between hurt
and hope.

don’t be deceived
by calm faces.
we wear masks
stitched from poems
and laughter
but behind them
we are velvet chaos,
quiet storms
with bleeding edges.

we, too,
have danced with devils
and kissed pain
like it was wine.
we return
from places
we cannot name
but we carry the fire
in our chests.

a poet could be anyone
walking beside you
a poet could be everyone
breaking silently

we collect fragments
glances,
murmurs,
empty chairs.
we see beauty
in undone hair,
in chipped teacups,
in rain that ruins plans.

and love
when we love,
we don’t stop at skin.
we fall into souls.
into scars.
into shadows.

and when we’re hurt,
we trust slower.
touch softer.
speak less.

so now you know
this heart,
it does not bruise
it blooms in pain.
this soul,
it does not break
it spills light
through its cracks.

so if you come near
and if you care
then please
be gentle with us.

Walking around with socks in Croc's looking so fly, with my expensive Starbucks and saggy ears from the extensions I put in a couple years ago, I wish that in my youth I never strived for getting high. I wanted to be cool with a man bun and ugly tatts, had a beanie cap but I could go back I would never let myself do that. Wife beaters, sometimes with preppy jeans or short, I was styling but now I find myself in court. I could never find any good jobs because of the stupid **** I did to fit in, I'm scarred to go to jail, and I know that I'll be a **** buddy to all those perverts looking at me with their demonic grins. Why did I roll with what society and my friends were handing out, and now I'm in a jam and I know there's no getting out. Groupies always riding with me, but now none of them are here to see me, alone with no way to be free. So much regrets, how did my life end up in such disaster, I can blame my family and friends or God even though I know I'm just as much to blame for this calamity, and that I can be somewhat of a ****** cheeky *******. Toxic, this whole thing is just so toxic, and I'm so sick and I know it just how it goes, even though sometimes I know that I can be as stubborn as a brick. Only seeing **** from the bridge of my nose, didn't give a **** about purity, I just slept with a whole bunch of hoes. Smocking ****, drinking a whole lot of jack Daniels and Hennessey, popped some Molly's, man I swear every time I did I felt like I was in the land of Disney. Looking back at my life is so dizzying, teacups go round and round, circle of life, and in the center of it all I was a god, I was king. Self centered and self afflicted, I couldn't handle my problems so I did drugs and now I'm too addicted. So toxic, but I can't stop it, I have tried to become clean but eventually I would always run back to it. Chasing a dream, face all white from all the *******, and its all the same, thinking I was a real g when I went to the ******* and made it rain. ***** all day, ***** all night, till I ran out of money, and all of them flew away from me like they was a runaway kite. Toxic, I just was so ****** up, thought I was so tough, but when it came to defending myself I couldn't buck up. Faded phases, just a maze rat running through all of society's test mazes. Peer pressure, societal pressure, intoxicating my mind, but what I'm left with is nothing, I must have been out of my mind. Adult crimes, adult decisions, not some punk kid anymore with no restrictions. Don't define yourself by what others do, just be you and do what you want to do. Everyone makes mistakes, don't do anything you'll later regret and I know its hard but I believe you can cut through all the worlds toxic filled snakes. Life isn't fair nor is it equal, and we are not a perfect people, but with perseverance and hope we can have a good sequel. Change happens, life moves fast, but if we keep in the toxins that are killing us and this world we won't be able to last.

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

"tiaras and teacups"
reminds me of the innocence we all held at one point

"broken hearts and bitterness"
shows you how misery can change a lot about someone
you thought you knew

Dear Mister Splee, I have a story for thee.
A man of humble attire, went fo’ a walk on a dull wire.
Skilled he kept balance, with nothing but a lance.
With a great long stride, he made it to the other side.

Back he went from one side to the other,
he grabbed nineteen polar bears and a ladder.
He carried them across just for fun.
Amazingly it was all at once not one by one.

The whole audience,awed with just a glance,
While monkeys surrounded and began to dance.
He dropped the ladder down, until it reached ground.
And the monkeys climbed up, pouring tea in a cup.

The polar bears climbed down with elegant ease.
I swear one of them sneezed.
But skilled he kept them balance, with nothing but a lance.
The acrobats were on the trapeze, they looked humbly appeased.



Thirty elephants all whiny and giddy.
Climbed the ladder all silly nilly.
Rhinos and Tigers performed ballet.
I hope you might get to see their performance someday.

The monkeys now on tightrope now hung,
By their tails they now flung.
The humble man on tightrope did sat,
collecting the teacups into his hat.

The elephants dove from the top,
into a pool, splish, splish, splop! splop!
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Tigers dancing.
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Rhinos prancing.

A lion or two just fo’ show,
Jump through hoops caught on fire
And a smile caught my eye from the man on the wire
He jump off, down the ladder.

He walked up to me, with glee
and told me to “tell this to Mister Splee:
Come visit me O’ Mister Splee
This circus was designed just for ye”

I told Mister Splee
And a tear rolled down his cheek
Sadder than he could be
He said: “That circus has long since been dead.”

I sing my succulents to sleep
Sip teacups brimming with cold water
House fifteen strays who have forgotten how to purr
Because not everything needs to make sense
And in these oddities I find the strength
To rationalize your death.

You have no idea how long I thought about that letter.
Or how many rough drafts I wrote, noted, and then ripped up.
Or how badly i thought I would throw up on the way there.
And did you notice how much I was shaking? and for a moment I forgot that anything had changed. That we don't speak anymore.
Then I left, still shaking, but I wish I could have, somehow, still been there.
Known what your parents said when the door slammed shut. Known what you did.
Did you look at them right away? or wait until you fixed your sleepy hair?
Did you walk into the kitchen because your mom wanted to see them? Spill them out onto the counter and she picks up the blue envelope and say, "What's this?" or did you run up to your room-up the stairs and to the right- close the door, sit on your bed, and pull them out carefully and gently?
Were you surprised when you pulled out the envelope? or did you just know that that's how I am?
Did you want to read it? or were you scared?
I wish I could have seen you open it, because I think I can imagine your careful fingers.
But not your eyes. I wish I could have seen your eyes. Because eyes are the windows to the soul and one time your soul was in love with mine.
Did you think , "oh, lined paper. that's just like her."? because that's what the point was.
Was the amount of "I'm sorry"s too much? or appreciated?
And what did you think when you turned it over? Did it make you hate me? or think of me?
Did you have to read it more than once to take it in?
And after you folded it back up, is it sitting on the table next to your bed? or maybe in the drawer or in a wallet or a box or a secret place that no one knows?
Did you relive our memories? or have you already blocked those out of your mind?
Did you fight back the urge to text me about it? or did you just already never want to speak to me again?
And I dont know why, but you told your friends about the letter but not what was in it.
Not waht it said. And if I could know one thing, it quite possibly could be why you didn't tell them what I had said.
Was it becaue you didn't want her to find out?
Was it to protect me from her?
or was it because it was special to you?
That, even though we are not together and we don't want to be and nothing will ever happen, nor should it, you feel the same way and there's still something there for you too?
Was it on your mind the whole day? or was it easy to forget?
and was your tweet at 1:32 a.m. about me?
Can I just pretend it was anyways? because it makes me feel better.
Do you miss talking?
I miss talking.
I miss you bringing me Mountain Dews and going to Roxberry every Monday night for three weeks and Zupas and doing homework together and Stairway to Heaven and taking two hours to say goodnight and shooting stars and talking about Paris and wanting to drop out of school and run away and Disneyland- Man do I miss Disneyland!- and California and watching the color show with your arm around me and Soaring Over California and you pushing me in your dad's wheelchair and holding hands and running to get onto the Ferris Wheel on time and you went in one of the nonswinging carriages for me and overlooking all of the park and I wanted you to kiss me but I was scared and we rode the Little mermaid ride with me a million times and we rode the teacups and you rode Dumbo with me and I felt like a little girl again and you walked through Sleeping Beauty's castle with me cause I love it so much and you got so scared when that little guy jumped out and I really liked you then and letting you drive my car and blasting music when it rains and going to concerts and you letting me choose the radio stations and going to Thanksgiving Point and you hating that salad that I loved and cuddling on my lawn in the freezing cold and "what would you do if I fell asleep right now?"  "I dunno. I'd probably stay here." "Good." and yeah it was a full moon and you sneaking out cause I was scared to death but you got caught and your mom was mad and I had to make cookies and write a note and I think she really hated me and my sparkly Paris shirt that got glitter all over you and "What should I write a poem about?" cause you were the only one I was comfortable enough with to ask that and hanging out with you and Thomas and how you couldn't figure out how to use the library and your truck and making bets on football games and helping you with your eagle project and I didn't know anyone that was there so I talked to your mom and then I stayed over probably for too long and we looked up music on iTunes and we never stopped texting and you making me muffins and trying to steal my phone and read it and how you told me that I made you want to be a better person and that you told me that you think I'm a good singer and how much you hated edamame but I don't know why and you always wanted me to try sea food and listen to your music and how you let me just come over and vent and cry to you when I was in a fight with my mom and I told you I wasn't going home and I would sleep in my car and you told me I could sleep in your basement and how understanding and kind you were.
and the only thing I can still say is I'm sorry.

I'm reading your favorite
book right now.

Have you ever noticed
that tail lights reflect
off tire-worn roads
when sun and all
have gone asleep?
A pair of red glow
just seems to float
through space
like a reverse halo
behind and below vehicle
on its 2am way elsewhere.
And how about the fact
that windshield wiper and turn signal
never truly-precisely-
exactly-rhythmically sync?
One clicks and blinks,
the other dryly whaps,
on that first swipe,
of course,
just when light mist
begins to stick
and the exit approaches
at a slick
sixty-five-miles-an-hour.
Turn down the volume now,
it's time to pay attention.

Candle wax doesn't always
melt directly inward.
Sometimes it does dome
perfectly,
which makes it
all the more fun
to push further.
Other times it just bows out,
as if to say,
"There'll be no addition
to the amount of light
I'll be giving you tonight.
You'll just have to bend me in
and pray for a split-less base,"
as hours, seeming like minutes,
in minutiae,
are spent burning our tobacco
and circling our teacups
and laughing effortlessly,
indenting pillows and rugs
and us keeping so, so quiet
as not to awaken ourselves.

Waxing is always
a chance worth risking
because, worst case,
we can inflame another dancer
while we chat
and hope that,
just this once,
God help us,
we realize
our stars align.

As your hand travels frivolously
To rest on my leg
My quiet heart races
Then faints

Awakened, I'm dizzy
And I look around
I'm not where I was
This is different ground

In this dreamworld
I wander
You take my hand
And lead me onward

There are teacups of chocolate
And rainbows of cream
Pathways of gum drops
In this delicious dream

I weep happy tears
As you lay here with me
On this sunken silk
Made of soft candy

Like sunken ships
Our feelings plummet
Into the sweet sea
They had just met

They descend into peace
Tranquility and ease
With every breath lost
They gave a tight squeeze

From one hand to the other
Between cold lips
Sweet nothings were murmured
And their tale was told

Waves turned to flame
Covered in fire
The cold left quick
Flames the new squire

The minty swirls
Overlapped and smothered
The orange licks of flame
In the dimming light

Our bodies dissolved
On lustful tongues
Our cries were not heard
From our disappearing lungs

friday night and i'm drowning
sweating and struggling to find the right air for my lungs
you look straight through me

and i feel like calypso
but you pulled at me with blue-veined hands
through white sand and concrete
and this is where i leave you
lips bleeding, your only loyalty to blue velvet sky

we outgrew the fort where we played lovers
still sitting inside, our heads bumping against the ceiling
plates and forks too small
and every time the clock ticks to five i think of you
striding through that door like a giant in a house of fine things

once we thought we wanted to be the greatest
and then we settled for something a few stories down
stopped wishing for skating across wood floors in socks
stopped planting lace for flowers and a sunday preacher
instead we settled for cold dinners and dead peonies in teacups

clutching pillow, laughing
turn the sound off and it looks like i'm screaming
and you're screaming too but for completely different reasons
by lamplight on creaky bed frame with a lone car zooming into the skylight

you were my moon&sun;&stars;
and for you i was the person who knew how to put your stars into constellations
i was a drowning mermaid
something seeming impossible but dangerously real at dawn's light
hands poking through teal-grey surf, clawing clawing

you stepped back and looked down, horrified and delighted
and i stopped being a mermaid and became a gold necklace
a hand adjusting that gold necklace, cool to touch on the nape
with my art school hair and sideways monday never smile

i fought through hell for you
i went through screaming at the top of my lungs
and came out on the other side, trailed by hideous, dark things

i sat on the sand
looking at the gold in my hand and thinking about how it looked bigger the last time i saw it

tonight i died
yesterday is a pebble crushed under my heel
but in time i will rise and fly backwards
swallowing deadly creatures whole, olive eyed and free
drinking rose petals and milk and bursting through brick

ashes become wind and wind blows through hollow tree
i will love again
but this time it will be me

Arriving, I find her briefing three press assistants on her upcoming catwalk show while simultaneously rifling through her closet — a dressing-up box filled with animal print and lacy confections — to choose her outfit for our shoot, while Desert Island Discs plays in the background.

Tucked at the end of a row of terraced houses close to London’s Portobello Road, Temperley discovered the six-bedroom property was on the market two years ago through her close friend, the designer Jasmine Guinness. The unique two-storey villa has a studio-style extension on the back of the property designed by the Victorian architect, Richard Norman Shaw.

She moved in 18 months ago with her son, Fox, 7, and her boyfriend, Greg Williams, 43, a portrait photographer, along with his two children from a previous relationship. ‘I’ve always been a Notting Hill girl at heart. I love that it’s so green, I love the market and my offices are around the corner.’

Temperley cites the interior designer Rose Uniacke (the creative genius behind the Beckham’s Holland Park home) as inspiration for fashioning her own interiors: ‘Rose has beautiful taste, sleek, clean but still really soft.’

The house’s all-white interior provides the perfect backdrop for Temperley to hang her beloved antique cut-crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors sourced from Golborne Road’s Les Couilles du Chien — famous for its historic bric-a-brac — and the Clignancourt flea market in Paris. The most striking of these is an intricately etched diptych of French brasserie mirrors that sits proudly over her living room sofa.

For colourful accents, she looked to her archive of textiles, which ranges from heirlooms from her great-grandmother’s travels around the Orient to remnants of past fashion collections: ‘I have big haberdashery drawers, which are used for storing my collection in a warehouse in Greenford,’ she says. Having such a vast collection gives her the chance to indulge in some serious upcycling; a Mexican rainbow throw livens up a plain cream sofa while a wedding cloak from Turkmenistan makes a quirky wall-hanging.

Despite the global influences, the Union Jack is a recurrent motif: ‘When I worked in New York [in the mid-Noughties] I was called ‘Little Miss English’. I loved using materials such as lace and lots of references to Victoriana — all very British.’ Look closely, and you’ll find red, white and blue accents everywhere — on teacups, Roberts radios and on silk cushions.

‘To me, being British represents being able to be individual, eccentric and not taking yourself too seriously.’

Temperley was born and grew up in Somerset on her family’s cider farm in Martock, before moving to London aged 18 to study fine art at the Royal College of Art. The countryside has an ineluctable pull for Temperley and she carves her time between her office — ‘probably 80 per cent of the time, 10 per cent of the time here, 5 per cent in Somerset at the moment, and 5 per cent everywhere else’.

But if her west London home is all breathy shades of Farrow and Ball, Temperley’s country pile — a sublime 5.6-acre regency property called Cricket Court that was once the media magnate Lord Beaverbrook’s home — is the opposite: ‘In Somerset my sitting room is dark burgundy, we’ve got black bedrooms and an ochre-coloured library.’

To bring a little of the country back to the capital, Temperley peppers her house with beautiful bunches of wild flowers, sourced from florist Juliet Glaves, who grows her own blooms in Shropshire: ‘I always loved The Secret Garden and as a child I spent hours collecting flowers and drying rose petals on every surface. I am a hopeless romantic at heart and I love British country gardens and their flowers.’

Another great passion of Temperley’s is reading and no corner, staircase or table in the house is complete without stacks of books and fashion magazines: ‘Sally Tuffin [the British fashion designer-turned-ceramicist] has got an incredible fashion library at her home in Somerset and my dream one day is to have a room lined in books.’

As for the rest of the London house? It’s very much a work in progress, ‘especially being a working mum. It’s more collecting things and putting them together in a very relaxed way. Like in fashion design, when it comes to interiors things either work together or they don’t. I have a good eye and don’t like to be constricted to just doing clothes — I’d like to go into interiors. That’s the next chapter’.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

Crawl into this space I made for you
Be the elephant in the room
I won’t think it odd when you snore like my father
Your head resting soft on my shoulder
All of us need to rest sometimes
Rest yourself on me

Race through this gap I hold open for you
Be the bull in the china shop
I won’t blame you for cracking my favorite teacups
Your hooves crashing down on the fragilest pieces of me
All of us need to be reckless sometimes
Wreck yourself through me

Shroud yourself in the cave’s mouth I hollowed out
Be the cat that’s got my tongue
But don’t scratch out that writing on the wall to the left-
(Because it’s about all I’ve got left)
All of us need to be left alone, sometimes
Let yourself alone in me

I’m not the strongest tree out there
My skeletal trunk is slumped over with moss
But green is your favorite color,
Make a bed of it
And rest your weary limbs upon my own
I’ll cradle you in the hammocked branches
Watching my fingershadows of you fall across the forest floor

It’s on nights like this by the light of the moon
I pretend you need me
Like I need you

I was given a Pet Plant
like a dog
collar and all
Ohh wait
That's women

              ≁≁≁

She coughs up metaphors
like it's consumption and the 1920's
All that blood looks like freedom

              ≁≁≁

Tentacles like teacups
And I drink the poison

Saying I fight a lot with my parents is a massive understatement
Because I am stuck in the past, unable to forgive them for what they turned me into.
And saying I mess up whenever it comes to boys is even more so
Because I keep looking too far into the future, seeing an inevitable end and breaking off before it even begins.
But you,
You always jolt me back to reality
And whenever you excitedly show me pictures of bunnies in teacups
Or rant about your dreams with **** rock stars
Or yell Ohmygosh then proceed to enlighten me about the latest gossip
I can’t help by smile
And thank God for today.

I swallow the silence

coming out of a nightmare

rising from the depths

reaching your fingers from the darkwater

pulled to safety

introduction to air.

I am a dark crystal in sunlight

i don't shine when i should

only for the grotesque figures

on their gentle moonlit float.

No beauty

no solace

leaving only space to gasp in the badness

bleed it out new

crisp, farm fresh, warm daisies, jello from the mold, dresses that twirl in the wind - goodness

without the victims knowing

passing all from grip to grin

I eat the darkness

i drink the cold

i birth the light

and let it wander

into the mason jars of small smilers

giant eyes on little faces

pinkies up to the sky

teacups full of imagination

leave you sitting on the porch

years later

trying to relive it all-

And then for you

I swallow the silence.

I was about
To pour
Hot steaming tea
To the two
Waiting
Lovely teacups...
And then i realized,
I am alone.
Again.

She turned heads in the street,
They fell at her feet
life it was so bittersweet
He saw her at the station
Makin love to all the nation
She made him her Salvation

They fled to the coast
They boarded a boat
They were Running to hope
A new life and a new land
Dreams that were grande
She was his firebrand

Rosalind
Where will she go
When the hot north wind blows?
If the fire of hell's within you
Where can you run to?

Packing cases and teacups
Babies, friends and meet ups
All sweetness and secrets
Their past left behind
Their life as they designed
Their future enshrined

But when the cracks start to show
And when hopes start to blow
And night seeps in to the afterglow
They fight like thunder
Their Dreams ripped asunder
Their lives start to rupture

They each took a lover
They made each other suffer
Their love began to wither
She was tormented by grief
Life became a thief
But, him she couldn't leave